Shelter
by Hollywithaneye
Summary: Small spaces can bring big revelations. Whether they're welcome or not is a question for another day. F!SS/MacCready, pre-relationship. (Might be expanded on in the future)
1. Shelter

**A/N:** _Yes, I'm aware the Puwolski shelters in-game are about as useless as tits on a boar. I claim artistic license._

* * *

"Stupid human!"

MacCready flinched as a bullet buried itself in the crumbling rubble beside his ear, tiny chips of masonry flying up to sting his cheek. He'd _told_ the Boss this was a terrible fucking idea (although not in those exact words). That whoever was dumb enough to get themselves captured by super mutants deserved their gruesome fate - but trying to talk her out of that damned do-gooder streak seemed about as pointless as arguing with the brick wall beside him.

Although the brick wall was a hell of a lot less likely to get him killed in the process at least.

Swiping furiously at the bead of sweat tangled in his eyebrow that threatened to ruin his focus, MacCready sighted through his scope and lined up another ugly green head in his crosshairs, holding his breath and steadying his grip on the forestock before squeezing off a round that turned the mutant's insides outside.

"Let's go to Trinity Tower! We'll make it quick!" he leaned out to call down in his best mockery of the Boss' voice. Curling his lip he snorted and settled back onto his perch on the second floor of the ruined building across the street. "Dammit, I knew I should have charged you twice as much."

It was only half an exaggeration, too. Boss was worth more trouble than any man should have to put up with, most of the time. The bitch of it all though was that he'd known as much from the moment she'd walked into that dingy back room at the Third Rail, wearing that shiny blue vault suit. Looking like something straight out of one of those old-timey magazines. Nobody in the real world was that filled out. Had teeth that straight and white or skin that smooth, without a single scar or blemish.

Or stumbled into damn near every frag mine in existence.

Fucking vault dwellers. Fucking pains-in-the-asses. He'd dealt with them once already in his life. Clearly he hadn't learned his lesson the first time.

"Shut up, MacCready," she shot back. From up here, all he could see of her where she crouched behind a rusted-out car was the top of her dark head, but there was a grin in her voice. "Don't pretend like you aren't having fun."

He was, to be honest. A hell of a lot more fun than he'd expected to ever have again after traveling to the ass-end of the Commonwealth, although he wasn't about to admit as much right now. "Look alive," he warned instead, fighting against the faint answering smile that tugged at his own lips as the ruined tower before them spat out a few more green-skinned imbeciles.

Boss poked her head around the bumper, the pistol in her hands jumping in time with the crack of gunfire as she took one out at the knees before burying another slug in its head. MacCready offered a silent thanks to whatever powers might be paying attention that the one time she'd listened to him had been when he'd talked her into something more substantial than that dinky 10mm she'd showed up in Goodneighbor with.

Taking aim he dropping another of the muties that were rushing her, spent casings chiming off the bricks at his feet as he threw back the bolt on his rifle after every shot. It was a wonder he could hear anything at all over the pandemonium the street had turned into, Boss ducking and weaving between hulks of wreckage, leading muties on a merry chase as he leaned out from behind cover again and again to pick them off.

Maybe that was why he didn't notice the flames at first, between the noise and ghostly flashes of gunfire that lit up the narrow street. Citrine tongues that licked innocuously over the frame of one of those abandoned vehicles she was dancing around, so small now but he knew what was to come. Bile rose, acrid in his gullet and on the back of his tongue, his stomach folding on itself as he realized she was still unaware of the danger - he'd followed her long enough to recognize that screwed-up look of concentration on her face, to know that she was seeing nothing beyond the end of her barrel right now.

'Boss!" he yelled, and she was startled into turning her head towards him, missing the mutant that had circled around to swing one of those wicked boards at the back of her skull in a glancing blow that sent her stumbling to the ground.

He pounded a round into that mutant's brainpan and bit back a savage curse. She was as good as dead. That car was gonna go at any moment, blowing her and the rest of those muties below to kingdom-come. The broken wall he'd been crouched behind would shield him from the worst of the blast, the 200 caps in his pocket would go far with Winlock and Barnes, and there'd be another person wandering into Goodneighbor looking to hire a merc sooner rather than later. All pretty damned good reasons for him to stay right where he was…so then why the _fuck_ exactly was he slinging his rifle over his shoulder and jumping out of a second story window, running towards an impending explosion instead of away with barely more than a half-baked plan of action?

He wasn't some sort of goddamned hero. All they did was end up dead, sooner rather than later. What dumbass part of his brain had forgotten that one vital fact?

He supposed it was whatever one was being drowned out by the voice that kept insisting she'd do the same for him. Or anyone, really.

The hot-blood smell of burning metal seared his nose, tainted every breath MacCready sucked in as he scrambled and slid his way over the piles of rubble and scrap towards her, ducking under the flailing arms of one super mutant as he dashed past. She was just struggling to her feet, swaying slightly as she looked around, the towering flames casting sharp shadows and highlighting the look of confusion on her face as she focused on him sprinting towards her.

"MacCready? What…?"

At least that's what he thought she said, but her voice was nearly lost in the roar of fire and mutie fury, and it wasn't as if he had time to explain anything anyways. The air left her in a harsh grunt as he hooked an arm around her midsection and half-dragged, half-threw the both of them into the ridiculous blue booth behind her, one of his fists slamming blindly against the wall for a few precious seconds before hitting the button that set the door hissing shut behind them, that stupid goddamn jingle echoing around them in the momentary silence.

He didn't even have time to sort out the jumble of limbs they'd become before the blast hit, shaking the walls of their narrow little shelter and rattling the door in its track, heating the metal behind him uncomfortably. He'd always wondered if these Puwolski things were actually radiation proof. The fresh wave of nausea that rolled over him was answer enough.

"You alright?" He barely recognized his own voice, pitched high and strung out, breathless from the mad dash. Either time or some passing asshole had broken the bulb overhead, and the only light inside the shelter came from the faint glow of the button panel to their side. He couldn't tell if it was that or actual rad sickness that cast Boss' features in a sickly greenish light, but he wasn't taking chances. "Puke on me and I'm walking, caps or no caps," he threatened, pitching his voice low. At least, he thought it was low...hard to tell over the ringing in his ears.

"Open the door!" was her shouted reply, and he winced, slapping a hand over her mouth to silence any more outbursts.

"Be quiet," he bit out. "That car exploding might have taken out the muties nearby, but that tower was crawling with them. They're gonna come looking, and we're sitting ducks." His narrowed gaze took in the trickle of blood that matted her dark hair. "How hard did you get hit?"

Her only response was to clamp her teeth over the meaty part of his palm and stomp down on his instep, and he snatched his hand away with a yelp, putting as much distance between them as was possible in such a small space before she lashed out again somehow. "Ouch! What the fu-hell?"

"Open the goddamned door, MacCready!" she spat.

He batted away her hand as it fumbled over his shoulder towards the release button, clasping her wrist and pinning it against the wall, wondering what the fuck was wrong with her. "No! Are you trying to get us killed? Just sit tight for five damned minutes, and they'll forget we were ever here."

"I'll take my chances. I can't stay in here." The anger in her words had sharpened to a different sort of edge, and MacCready could clearly see the whites surrounding her dark eyes despite the dim light. In the tiny enclosure the sound of their breathing echoed harshly - so much so that it took him a moment to realize that instead of slowing down, hers was speeding up.

"Didn't think I smelled that bad," he groused, but his heart wasn't in the joke. He'd given her as much space as he could in the close quarters earlier but he'd been forced back in as they squabbled over the controls, and the line of her leg now pressed up against his. He could feel her trembling through it. "You sure you're ok?" Head wounds could be nasty things, he knew. Seen more than a few people acting weird after taking one. He began rifling through his pockets with his free hand, feeling his way in the dark for one of the few stimpaks he carried.

"You don't understand." Her voice was vehement, and she snatched her arm back from his grasp to knot her fingers together before her, breath whistling sharply through her tight jaw as her gaze darted about. "I can't - I won't…"

She was faltering, and that was the most disconcerting thing of all. Boss didn't stutter. She didn't stammer, or pause, or leave a thought half-finished. She talked circles around everyone, and yet somehow was the most direct person he'd ever met. He'd even asked her once how she managed it, after she'd haggled the immutable KL-E-O down to almost ludicrous prices. She'd just laughed and told him to try swaying a hung jury, whatever that meant. Something from her life _before_ , he assumed. Times he tried not to pry too hard about because honestly it was too fucking depressing for the both of them. He didn't like hearing about what all the world had lost.

And lately, he'd found, he didn't like thinking about what all she had lost.

A violent tremor passed through her. "Let me out," she breathed, and he realized she wasn't even speaking to him anymore. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she was far away from this shelter. From this time.

Wasn't that the goddamned truth any day of the week, though.

"Boss," he began quietly, reaching out to gingerly lay a hand on one shoulder, trying to bring her back to the here and now. He'd seen a kid or two in Little Lamplight react the same way after getting caught somewhere in the dark recesses of the caves. Those were the ones that slipped out in the middle of the night sometimes and never came back.

She shuddered beneath his palm, like a horse about to bolt, before her eyes flew back open and

locked onto his, as deep and wide and black as the caverns he'd grown up in. "Vivian," she said, and continued when he blinked in confusion. "My name. Say it, please."

"Vivian," he repeated inanely, simply because she'd told him to, and was surprised at how much he enjoyed the way it hummed on his lips.

Dragging her hands down her face he saw she was fighting for composure, trying to force her panting breaths slower. "I'm not back there. Tell me I'm not, MacCready."

He had a pretty damned good idea of where 'there' was, even if he was a little fuzzy on the details.

"You're not." For lack of any better ideas (and because they were smashed into a goddamned Puwolski shelter made for one and were practically entangled anyways) he slid his hand from her shoulder to flatten on the slight curve of her spine, tracing short lines up and down in a shitty attempt at giving her something, anything else to focus on. He'd always felt he'd been crap at reassuring Duncan too, but his son had never really seemed to mind.

He more than half expected her to slap him away. He _sure_ as shit didn't expect her to turn into his chest, smashing her face against it in a way that couldn't possibly be comfortable. Behind his back he felt her fingers balling up the tattered fabric of his coat, and the material of his shirt grew damp and warm where her breath soughed through it.

He tried to think of something comforting to say, anything to push past the strange way his guts were suddenly twisted. "You're stuck in this piece of shi...crap fake fallout shelter, and for the moment stuck with me. Dunno if that's any improvement."

Her muffled laughter reached his ears a moment later, as shock finally began to fade and he was trying his damndest to figure out just what the fuck to do with his hands. It sounded strained, pitched a little higher than usual, but it was an improvement over the near-breakdown of moments ago and so he wisely ignored that. "Beats being dead, I suppose," she said finally.

Giving up, he let his arms come to rest around her and did his best not to notice how fucking fantastic she smelled. "Can't argue with that."

Minutes ticked past in silence, broken only by the fading sounds of mutants milling around outside their little hideout. Boss' (no, _Vivian's_ ) tension slowly melted away, and for half a second he almost wondered if she'd passed out propped up against him. Maybe that knock to the head had been harder than he'd thought. He jiggled her slightly, questioningly, and was rewarded with a tiny sound of protest and her hands clutching at him tighter.

Fucking hell, he was shit. Utter and unrepentant shit. A literal, man-sized, MacCready-shaped, walking talking pile of shit...because all he could think about right now was how well she fit up against him and how good it felt to hold someone again. To have someone need him again, even for something as fleeting as this, which was beyond ten kinds of fucked up. That goddamned wedding ring of hers was gaudy enough to blind a man, and even if she hadn't worn it he knew there was only one way most of the people who depended on him ended up.

She sure as hell deserved better than that.

"We're all clear, I think," he said, and reached up to smack the release button before she could even respond, tumbling away from her and out the door. Realizing, through the panic that coiled hot and tight in his chest, that this time he was the one who needed to get the fuck out of there.

He pretended not to notice the hollow look in her eyes when he turned back around, and in another moment it didn't matter. She'd produced a stimpak and a Radaway from somewhere, jammed them into her thigh and moved to take point once more. Smoothed back on that fake bullshit face as she pushed past him, the one he recognized from all the verbal cartwheels she turned around most clueless fucks. The one that said she'd die before letting you figure out what she was really thinking.

Wordlessly he straightened his sagging rifle, fell into step behind her, and did his best to ignore her lingering warmth and scent as it slowly faded.

All in all, it was a piss-poor attempt...but it still went better than trying to ignore the unwelcome realization of just how goddamn much it stung to have that face turned on him.


	2. Sellout

_Via an anonymous request: "I was wondering if you have the time, could write a bit about how grateful? Happy? Relieved? MacCready is to find someone who won't screw him over/rob him/throw him to the wolves?"_

 _This one's for you, Nonny. It might not have been exactly what you were looking for, but I hope you like it._

* * *

"Ok, ok…" Vivian pursed her lips thoughtfully, lapsing into silence for a few moments as she swerved around a pothole in the crumbled roadway. "Have you heard the one about the sign hung up at the brothel?"

He hadn't, but MacCready would have shaken his head anyways. Mostly because listening to jokes, even ones he already knew, beat the hell out of trudging along the busted highway in silence. Hearing her natter on reminded him that he wasn't out here alone.

It sure as hell didn't hurt that her voice sounded like he imagined good whiskey must have once tasted like, all smoky and sweet and smooth at the same time somehow.

"Don't think so," he said, sliding a narrowed glance over at her. "This isn't like that godawful one about the robotic frog, is it?"

Laughter pressed dimples into her russet cheeks. "No. It's not...Scout's honor."

He didn't have a fucking clue what she meant by that but that was nothing new, and before he could ask she stiffened, her head swiveling toward something up ahead.

"Look alive," Vivian warned with a jerk of her chin, and the easy grin slipped off her face.

His gaze followed hers, coming to rest on the trio ambling towards them ahead of a laden brahmin, and his attention was snagged by the distinctive green fatigues. "Shi...that's not good."

"Problem?"

She framed it as a question but he knew she wasn't really asking. Vivian was too fucking sharp to miss the tension that starched his back, or the restless way his fingers crept towards the sling that carried his rifle. "You could say that," he shrugged, feigning a nonchalance he didn't feel (it was just as much an excuse to break the rigid set of his shoulders as anything). "Gunners. Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll be new. Nobody I know."

She just snorted and planted her feet, standing in the middle of the road as if she owned the whole damned thing. Her arms were akimbo and her hips were cocked in that way he'd begun to figure out was the Vivian equivalent of setting her chin stubbornly. He fucking _hated_ when she did that. For one, it meant nothing but trouble was sure to follow...and two, it made it really damned hard to keep his eyes from drifting towards her ass.

In his defense, though, it was a very nice ass.

"Let's just detour. Get off the road now and they'll probably just pass us by," he tried again, and color him un-fucking-surprised when she just shook her head.

It was pointless now anyways. The Gunners had drawn close enough for him to recognize the haggard features and twice-broken nose of one of them, and vice versa if the way his demeanor sharpened was any clue. Like a dog catching a scent. That might have been what he had hated the most about the fucking Gunners - how much they reminded him of a pack of those mongrels that hunted the wasteland. Lean and hungry and mean as fuck.

"Well, well...if it isn't the deserting little pissant himself. Hello, MacCready," drawled Carter as he came to a halt some paces off, his lip curling as if he'd just stepped in a pile of brahmin shit. His fellow Gunner tightened her grip not-so-subtly on the rifle she hoisted, and the poor trader they were guarding was left looking bemused.

 _Hello yourself, fuckface_. That was what he was dying to say, but he ground his teeth together and forced out a simple, "Carter."

A pair of mirrored glasses hid Vivian's eyes but he didn't need to see them to feel her curious gaze, heavy on his shoulder as it bounced between the two of them. For once though she kept her peace, and Carter continued on in the silence that had sprung up.

"Winlock said you'd moved on. Seems like he was wrong." His eyes swept over Vivian, lingering at times, before he turned a toothy grin, laden with meaning, on MacCready. "Or maybe you just found greener pastures, eh?"

He didn't realize he'd curled his fingers into a fist until he felt his nails biting into his palm. "None of your goddamn business, Carter."

"Maybe it is. Maybe Barnes told us to keep an eye peeled for you. Maybe he thinks Winlock's gone too easy on you, that you're gonna keep right on working in the Commonwealth. Stealing jobs from good Gunners that aren't gutless wonders," Carter shot back, thrusting his chin out with a sneer.

"I haven't been-"

"He works for me," Vivian broke in, before he could protest any further, and MacCready smothered the groan that threatened. It would have been too goddamned miraculous for her to just not let that little tidbit slip, wouldn't it? "On retainer, of sorts. Not out taking jobs."

"That's still one job too many," Carter bit out. "I heard there were good caps on your head, if anyone caught you working around these parts." His hand crept towards the pistol strapped at his hip and MacCready shrugged his own rifle slowly into his hands, trying to decide if he had time to shoot both of the Gunners before they could squeeze a round off.

The trader behind them began to shift uncomfortably, his skin blanching beneath the smudges of dirt and his uneven tan. "Don't want no trouble," the man said, his voice wavering slightly in the tense silence that had solidified around them.

MacCready didn't dare take his eyes off of Carter's, anxiety skating down his back as the other Gunner slowly flicked her safety off and Carter slowly drew his sidearm. So focused on the two mercs, he almost missed when Vivian took a small step towards the on-edge pair and spread her empty hands slightly in the sort of aw-shucks gesture he'd seen her use so many times.

It worked just often enough that he let himself relax the smallest bit.

"Hey, nobody does." She held her palms out, fingers spread. Nothing to see here, folks. Then she turned her focus to Carter and he saw the hint of one dark brow rise above her glasses. "Just how many caps are we talking?"

That was the last fucking thing he expected to come out of her mouth just then, and he couldn't seem to do anything other than gape at Vivian in disbelief, the end of his rifle sagging.

"Plenty."

"Then you wouldn't mind parting with some sort of finder's fee, I'm sure. Right? A few caps, and I'll just go my merry way without any fuss. You'll have an easy time nabbing your reward, and your client here doesn't have to be witness to any more...unpleasantness than is necessary." She tacked on that same winning smile that he'd never been able to not return, white and bright. Quick as lightning flashing across her face, quicker still to blind whatever idiot she'd turned it on.

Maybe he'd been blinking away after-images this whole time.

A few breathless seconds passed, as Carter seemed to weigh her words, glancing between the two of them before coming to some conclusion at last. "That's some cold shit, woman." Carter laughed and shook his head, although his aim never wavered enough to give MacCready any sort of view other than down the barrel pointed between his eyes. "You'd make a damn good merc. If you ever get tired of doing whatever it is you do, come look us Gunners up."

"It's no skin off my nose. You hired guns are a dime a dozen." Vivian shrugged, and took another step closer to the Gunners. She cocked her head and seemed to stare at MacCready for a long moment, her eyes hidden behind his own stunned reflection, before she turned away from him entirely. "Besides...he never shuts up."

"You…" _Bitch._ There were a million other choice words to describe Vivian tumbling over themselves in his mind, but he didn't even dare to open his mouth again to finish that thought (promise to Duncan be damned) because he was pretty fucking sure that if he did he'd lose whatever was left of his breakfast. He couldn't have felt sicker to his stomach than if she had actually planted a boot in it.

Back in Goodneighbor, he'd asked about the bullet in his back. How goddamned stupid could he be to think he'd somehow dodged it this time? It always came, and it _always_ fucking hurt.

More so when you didn't even see it coming.

His brain was screaming at him to do something, to take the shot he'd been contemplating before, but he'd lost the edge of surprise now. Without Vivian and her quick pistol at his side, Carter and the other woman would be all over him before he could finish raising his rifle again. The asinine idea of trying to make a break for it even crossed his mind but he was rooted to the spot, watching with a sort of morbid curiosity as she reached to take the caps Carter was digging out of one of the myriad pouches at his belt with his free hand.

And then somehow, in a blur between one blink and the next, the gun that had been in Carter's hand was in hers, pressed up against his jaw, and he was howling over the misshapen finger he cradled against his chest. It wasn't much of an opportunity but MacCready took it, hurriedly sighting down his rifle at the stunned Gunner woman who'd recovered enough to aim right back at him, the both of them locked in some sort of rope-pissing standoff. The brahmin snorted and pawed the ground restlessly, and behind it cowered the trader, his panting breaths echoed by the distressed animal's lowing.

"You cunt!" Carter bellowed. "You fucking broke something!"

"Sorry," Vivian said, her voice flat and hard and pretty much the opposite of sorry. "Happens when you get disarmed with your finger on the trigger." One boot lashed out and knocked Carter's leg out from under him in his distraction, and he fell to his knees. Over her shoulder, without taking her attention from the man in front of her, she called to the Gunner woman. "Put your gun down, or your partner eats lead."

For a wild second MacCready thought the woman might try and take her chances. She licked her lips nervously, her gaze flickering around the tableau they all made as if weighing her options, but the sound of Vivian cocking the revolver's hammer for emphasis seemed to make up her mind at last, and her shoulders slumped. Crouching, she set the rifle at her feet, and he hurried to kick it away, keeping his sights trained on her still.

"Here's how it's going down. We keep your guns, and you two keep your lives. Sound like a good deal?" Vivian asked, as calm and cool and sweet as you please, as if she was fucking haggling with Daisy back in Goodneighbor.

"Need the guns to finish the job," the woman grumbled, and Vivian snorted.

"Don't pretend like you haven't got about a dozen more in your packs or on the brahmin." A small petty smile bloomed on her face. "Probably a stimpack or two for that finger too."

Grimacing, Carter glanced at his partner before nodding jerkily. Maybe he wasn't as fucking stupid as he looked.

"Good." She all but patted him on the head before taking a step back, still sighting down the barrel of the revolver as he clambered to his feet and the trio collected themselves.

"You're dead, you know?" Carter spat on McCready's shoes as he passed, trailing behind the now-placid brahmin. "A fucking dead man walking. From now on out, you see green, you'd better run." He leveled a venomous look at Vivian. "The both of you."

"I'll take that." Her lips thinned. "But you tell the Gunners, MacCready is mine. The Vault Dweller's. And I'll kill anyone that tries to collect that reward."

MacCready couldn't stand to let Carter have the last word. "Shove it si- where the sun don't shine," he retorted, still choking on the original _sideways up your own ass_ he'd wanted. Watching them recede as his heart finally began to stop its attempt at clawing its way up his throat.

Jesus, he needed a fucking cigarette.

Slinging the rifle back onto his shoulder he patted down his pockets, fishing out a crumpled pack still half-full of slightly bent Grey Tortoises. He was proud of the fact that his fingers only shook a tiny bit as he lit one and took a drag so fast and deep that he promptly coughed it all back up, eyes watering.

Vivian pounded on his back helpfully, a grin splitting her face. "Hot damn, Mac, that was a close one. I didn't think he was going to buy that for a second there."

"Yeah." The laugh he forced sounded half-assed and weak, still sapped by the lingering nausea that roiled his stomach. The hurt was still too raw and too real, even if it had been just another case of her blowing smoke up someone's ass. "Close."

Her smile faded around the edges. "You ok?"

"Fine."

"Bullshit," she shot back, not missing a beat. "You like hearing yourself talk too much for one-word answers."

When the fuck had she gotten such a bead on him? He opened his mouth, and then closed it again on silence, and busied himself with another drag. It was too goddamned embarrassing to admit how much he'd been stung by the thought that she was ready to turn on him.

The quiet stretched on, her brow slowly clouding over as it did, like a summer storm building. "You really thought I was serious, didn't you?" she said at last, an incredulous note sharpening her words. The muscle in her jaw ticked, and he wished she wasn't wearing those damned glasses. Wished he could see the expression hidden behind them, rather than his own profile.

He got his wish when she tore them off her face and threw them at him, his hands raising far too slowly to keep them from bouncing off his chest and landing at his feet. Too caught up in the way her dark eyes flashed and the first honest emotion he'd seen outta her since that stupid Pulowski shelter. "You know what? Fuck you, MacCready. Just... _fuck you._ "

Stunned, he watched her stalk away for far too long before dropping the forgotten cigarette and grinding it out beneath his heel, stooping to pluck her glasses from the ground and folding them carefully to slip into a pocket. "Vivian," he called, drifting after her.

"Can it. Whatever smartass thing you're going to say, do us both a favor and don't."

He didn't need to see her face this time to tell she was _pissed_ at him. Her back was like a brick wall slammed up between them, and her boots pounded the ground as if it had somehow transgressed. And was it any wonder? They hadn't been traveling that long together, but he had fucking eyes. He saw how hard she tried to leave each place she left just a little better. How often she put other people before herself. And he had honestly thought, even just for a moment, that she would stab him in the back for a handful of lousy caps.

God, he was a fucking asshole sometimes. Too walled in behind his own shit to see anything else. To see that stumbling into this partnership was the best damn thing that'd happened to him in awhile, and he was completely fucking it up seven ways to Sunday because he had his head so far up his own ass he could almost see daylight.

"Vivian," he tried again as he caught up to her. "Would you hold up a second?" Reaching out he snagged her elbow.

She slowed, reluctantly, but a scowl still darkened her brow and her eyes refused to meet his as she let him fall into step beside her. "I give the orders around here. And right now I don't want to discuss this."

He snorted, just barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "You can't pull the boss angle on me. Not after…" _You damn near bawled in my arms,_ he wanted to say. _Not after that little display back there._ "Everything."

It was her turn to snort. "Yes, I can and I will. I'm not going to pretend we're more than that anymore."

He couldn't keep straight what direction her thoughts fucking veered sometimes. "What?"

"You know what they say about liars. They don't trust anyone because they assume everyone else is a liar too. That's the same sort of thing that's going on here, isn't it?" She finally stopped walking, turning to crowd him angrily and meeting his gaze at last, her stare as black and sharp as bits of obsidian. "You think I'd turn you over, because that's what you would have done. But what should I expect from the mercenary, right? You're just looking out for number one." Her hard expression cracked slightly, and the raw glimpse that peeked through stabbed at him. "Well, like I said...fuck you, MacCready. I would never do that."

"Look, I'm sorry," he began quietly, yanking the hat from his head and raking a hand through his hair a few times to settle his thoughts. Jamming his cap back over the tousled strands he blew out a slow breath. "Maybe you're right, maybe I've just been watching people shi...crap all over other people for the slightest edge for too long. But you're wrong about me. I wouldn't do that. At least, not to you. And I sure as hell should have known that you wouldn't. I'm just not used to anyone having my back like this." Saying it out loud put a grin on his face that was sure to get him murdered in the next few seconds, but he couldn't bring himself to care. It felt too damn good to realize the truth of it.

 _He wasn't alone._

She stared up at him for long wordless moments, exposed and yet inscrutable, an open book written in some other language. "Get used to it, then. Or get out." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "And quit smiling. You're supposed to at least pretend to be contrite when you apologize."

"Right. Not smiling." It only grew wider, and she made a small sound of annoyance, but he saw the corners of her own lips fight not to turn up as well. Digging out the pair of glasses she'd accosted him with, he unfolded them and perched them back on her nose jauntily. "You forgot those."

Curls floated above her ears around the frames, like dark clouds, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets before he did something really stupid. Like reach to tuck them away, or see how soft they actually were. "I don't think they make 'em like you anymore, Vivian. You're some kinda…" he trailed off with a shake of his head, realizing too late that he'd spoken his thoughts aloud.

 _Relic. Artifact. Throwback._ Something along those lines was what he intended, but the word that kept trying to shove its way to the tip of his tongue was _treasure._ As if she was something far better than this piece of shit world deserved. But that was the cheesiest fucking thing he'd ever heard, so he shut his trap on the sentiment entirely and shrugged.

The firm line of her mouth softened slightly, her breath leaving on a tiny sound, and he kicked himself for putting those stupid glasses back on her because he'd have given a lot to see the rest of her face right now. He didn't have a word for whatever stretched between them, just knew it made him shift his weight from foot to foot a couple of times restlessly, and before he could figure out how to label it she opened her mouth and broke it.

"Beat it, we're closed."

"What?" He blinked and rocked back on his heels, confused. Hadn't they sorted this all out? Was she still pissed at him?

She lifted her brows, and this time before she turned away he caught a smile pulling at her lips. "The rest of the joke," she said, speaking slowly and exaggerated, as if he was dense. "That was the sign at the whorehouse. 'Beat it, we're closed.'"

He laughed. Of course he fucking laughed, and kept right on doing so as he trudged after her. It was a terrible joke...and yet somehow, at that moment, with relief buoying light in his chest, any joke she'd told would have been greatest one he'd ever heard.


End file.
